


Another Christmas Carol

by hikarufly



Series: After Twelve Stories [12]
Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who & Related Fandoms, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Fluff, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-24
Updated: 2017-01-08
Packaged: 2018-09-11 18:58:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,600
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9002761
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hikarufly/pseuds/hikarufly
Summary: Clara wants to know Dickens, and to spent a Victorian Christmas with the Doctor.
This is unashamed smut, I should apologise for my triviality but I will not! 
English is not my first language.





	1. First Stave - The Doctor, Clara and the Wardrobe

Clara liked the new library of the TARDIS. She was not entirely sure it was new, maybe the old one with the pool was somewhere else, or stored in the TARDIS' database. Anyway, she liked this best: it was extremely cosy, with warm and low lights that did not fatigued your eyes but made you feel cuddled, ample armchairs just like the one in the control room and countless shelves full of volumes. It was all brown and dark red, and smelt of old paper, leather and all things hearty.

The Doctor was sat on one armchair, a pair of glasses on his nose, a frown on his forehead and his nose into an old copy of Christina Rossetti's poetry. Clara was just opposite him, curled up into another armchair, her legs just under her and her mind lost inside “A Christmas Carol”.

«You never introduced me to Charles Dickens.» she said, when she reached the end of one stave. She raised her gaze on him, but he did not imitate her.

«Are you not happy enough with Jane Austen?» he replied.

«If you frown a little more you could have a paralysis or something, you know that?» she smiled, and had a little shiver. He relaxed his forehead for a moment, and than raised an eyebrow.

«I was trying, as ever, to understand what I found so astounding in the poem “In the bleak midwinter”.» he explained, standing up and, leaving his book opened but faced down where he sat, reaching her. He picked up a blanket and tucking her into it with utmost devotion. She blushed a little and met his gaze.

«And did you understand it?» she asked, in a whisper. He remained close to her, their smiles a few inches from each other.

«Not yet.» he simply replied. After another long moment, Clara felt as the Doctor's stare was too much to bear, and yet enjoying it with a very strong and pleasurable ache in the lower parts of her belly.

«You won't make me forget what I was saying by changing the subject or being all attentive.» she declared, and he moved a little bit away from her.

«I already met Dickens. Nice fellow. I call him Charlie.» he stated. She didn't seemed really impressed, her raised eyebrow and folded arms at least were eloquent.

«Look, we can try and land somewhere in Victorian London, hopefully without bumping into aliens for once and risking to die, and maybe go and see Vastra and Jenny. I still owe a few penny to Strax.» he explained. She stood up and smiled most wickedly, taking his hands in hers. He felt like blushing then, and he was.

«No, no Vastra or Jenny or Strax.» she decided. «Just us.»

The thought seemed to be a bit awkward for him, as he was tensed up as a violin's string. She stood on her tiptoes and kissed the corner of his lips, very slowly. She got back on her feet only when she felt him relaxing.

«You know, it is very sweet and nice that you are as nervous as the first time... but sometimes a bit alarming. Then I remember you are alien, and that might be the best thing.» she explained, hoping to see that wonderful awkward smile on his face. When it came out and lightened his face, she was as delighted as she could be.

«Now, I have a proposition.» she declared. He was all ears. «We should try and find Mr Dickens... and then Miss Rossetti.»

The Doctor gave it a thought, while she was embracing him and finding reassurance in the double beating of his hearts.

«I am not sure actually. Dante Gabriel Rossetti, her brother, was quite... untidy.» he explained, after carefully search for the right word. She looked at him as she was not believing her eyes.

«Are you jealous, Doctor?» she asked, as he clumsily hugged her too.

«I am not a victim of the green-eyed monster, actually.» the alien replied. «But he was not really commendable like William Morris was.»

Clara had the face of someone who could not so easily fooled.

«Christmas, 1876, in London. Please, Doctor.» Clara purred, caressing his neck with her nose and trying to buy him by cuddling. He could not give up so, but he finally had to.

«Fine, fine.» he replied, unease by her manners. She giggled as he let her go and then the Doctor took her hand.

«First, we need period clothes.» he said. She was stranded for a moment, and then started to think about all the Victorian things that could look more than nicely on him, and followed without any other word on the subject.

They found the TARDIS wardrobe rooms: they were full of clothing of many worlds and times, and it took them a while before finding the right ones. She settled for a very nice and enhancing dress, similar to the one he was wearing at the clockwork robots' restaurant, while he, after putting a top hat on not to keep it under his arm, was looking for the best dandy style he could think of. She got closer to him and took the various pieces and helped him put it on a hanger next to a mirror.

«So, Mr Beau Brummell, may I assist you with your dressing up?» Clara asked. He looked like blushing for a moment, than remembered what Jane Austen told him at Easter, when all had started basically. Enjoy the moment, while it lasts. After a moment of melancholy, the Doctor put on a naughty smile.

«Only if I can do the same.» he murmured, with a low voice that made her knees weaken.

«After undressing you too?» she added, and there was no need for reply as he kneeled down to take off his boots. The sight of his wild curls though made her move closer and lose her fingers between them in a very intimate gesture. He closed his eyes and when his boots and socks were gone, he stood a moment longer like this, his head on her belly while she was bewildering his hair. He then stood up, letting his hands under her T-shirt as his head returned over hers. She felt familiar and exciting chills down her spine as he did so.

«I meant undressing you, not me.» she whispered, without much certainty.

«Not all is about you, Clara, even if you're an egomaniac.» he explained, as he let his hands off her, which made a pout appear on her face.

«You can't have your cake and eat it too» he reprised, as he started to unbuckle his belt. She let her hands on his.

«You are my cake and I intend to enjoy eating you all.» she said, freeing him from that belt and taking it off ever so slowly and leaving it on the floor without taking her eyes off his.

She unzipped the dark hoodie over the holey jumper and took that off too. She moved slowly and yet thoughtfully and kindly. He could not take his eyes off hers, and so was she.

«Have I ever told you a hate this jumper?» Clara asked, letting her hands explore his sides, his belly and chest under the fabric, as he did before with her.

«Why?» he enquired, as his hearts started to pound faster.

«It teases me too much. I can see some of your skin but just a few spots, and I can but imagine very little from the way it highlights your features.»

He helped her taking the jumper off him after this little explanation, and she made him sit on a chair just in front of the mirror, even though it was facing her by three quarters and not the reflection. She sat on him without the faintest shame, and started to map every inch of his bare chest, dead calmly. He looked at her all the time, fascinated by her moves and waiting to see how long it will take her to be satisfied by that exploration. Her weight on him was most pleasing, but he was not human after all: she could burn down in anticipation before he could let her know how that contact was attempting to his self control. Before he realised, she had used a hanging cravat to tight his wrists on his back, so that he could not move from that chair. She unzipped his trousers but did nothing more, standing up and stepping back to admire him at her mercy, wild curls on his head, a surprised face, his cheeks flushed and something else trying to burst out of what she had just opened.

She took her time, and definitely casually she took off her T-shirt, leaving it on the floor next to her. He tried to look unimpressed, but the light in his eyes could say otherwise. First the button and then the zipped were opened on her jeans, and those found their way to the floor with her ballet flat. With only her underwear on, she got closer again, and teased the resistance of his boxers' elastic band with a finger. The light touch of her fingernail to his skin made him sigh with frustration.

«Patience, Doctor. You of all people should understand the meaning of time and waiting.» she said to his ear, while her breasts pressed against his chest. She bit his lobe gently before she sat on him again with her legs astride.

Before he could protest any longer, she started to kiss him avidly on the lips, demanding his tongue to dance with hers, hanging over his wild curls, feeling his two hearts beating so fast as they would reach out of his ribcage. Her nipples were hard under the thin lace of her bra, and as the little holes in his jumper, were tantalising him in a very brutal yet wonderful way. He managed to free himself from the knotted tie, and grabbed her hips firmly first. Then, when the mere thought of having her apart from him of a single millimetre was too much to bear, he embraced her tightly, trying to get rid of her bra and winning over the hooks after the longer half minute of his life.

She had to stop for breathing after a while, keeping her eyes closed and her forehead against his, their panting mixing together. He had his eyes open, though, and was hugging her as he wanted her to disappear inside his arms. She finally met his gaze, and saw him smiling as wildly as he ever did in that situation.

«You want to kill me, Doctor?» she asked, smiling and feeling his hands down her back and a familiar warmth wetting her.

«Never.» he replied, almost in a growl, as the strength of her knickers' elastic band was under sever thread. She had no intention of letting go of him, but she had to get rid of every single obstacle between them and, reluctantly, she moved away only to remove his trousers and their underwear. When she got back on him, she could feel his erection right against her, and even if in the library she had contemplated the thought of teasing him a bit at that point, she found she could not really wait any longer. She helped him slip directly inside her, their widened pupils bathing in each other's blackness, their moans dying inside the unrestrained kisses they were stealing from each other's lips. Even if he could complain about his egomania, she was more than happy to let her ride him so: she moved slowly first, up and down, evidently pleasing herself first, and then found a pace that could be the best for both of them. The grip he had on her was so strong he was marking her skin, and that slight sting seemed to charge her even more, accelerating her moves. Her cries were intoxicating for him as much as her perfectly round breasts, her strong yet delicate hips, the splendid scent of the crook of her neck, the way he could move inside her and their tension climbing up to climax. He called her for mercy, as he was feeling he could not retain himself to wait for her: that small word, that “please” was muttered at the perfect note, as she made him take the final thrust, and they came together, almost losing balance on that very stable chair they were on. The strength of that orgasm was breathtaking, and Clara could not really let him slip out all so suddenly: he helped her with his firm yet almost gallant grip over her hips, making her sit on his lap to catch their breath again.

That was true bliss, he thought. That was what he had always denied himself, until that night at the Regency ball Miss Austen insisted they attended. He thought he would regret it, he would feel guilty and dirty, but he was not, he never was with her: it would not last, of course, but the way their scent mixed together after making love – no way he could call that just sex or mating – or feeling her heart slowing down together with her breath, the smile of pure delight on her face when she lied beside him if they were in bed or on his chest, the way she purred like a kitten in his arms... how could he give all that up for fear of something inevitable as death? He understood time, but sometimes forgot how to handle it to take the best out of it.

She stole a sweet kiss from his lips.

«I can feel the clockwork in your brain, and that is no good sign.» she said, caressing the scruff of his neck and the wild curls just above it.

«Even if I am thinking of you?» he enquired.

«Especially that.» she stated, standing up slowly. She was not truly ready to let him go, and at the same time she wanted so badly to spend a nice Victorian Christmas with him. She made him stand up and helped him with the clothing. First, the long shirt: she buttoned it up with some regret, but looked at the thin fabric of it with pure pleasure. The best part was no underwear. The trousers were as tight as they could be, another great moment for her, and when the waistcoat was on, he finished his look up on his own, as she did not want him to squeeze her into a corset. Clara got help only to close the last hooks, and managed to put the top hat over his wonderful hair.

«Good God, how I want to strip all that off you now.» she whispered, but he was distracted, and when he asked what did she said, she did not repeat it. She did not catch the way he looked at her, otherwise they would not have left the wardrobe.

 


	2. Second Stave - God bless us, everyone.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, I finished this too late, I know, but... here's some fluff <3

Safely leaned on the arm of the Doctor, Clara was walking over the snowy pavement with a huge smile of delight on her face. Even if the fog was starting to disturb and fill the air, and there were boys in rags and noise and dirt from the street, she seemed perfectly happy of just walking down a London street with her Doctor, without the urge to run away or look for shelter. She heard some chatter and the strings of musical instruments pinched and caressed.

«The Carol singers, Doctor! Come!» Clara exclaimed, collecting her skirts to run towards the musical group. The Doctor, keeping his top hat on with a little check, followed swiftly: he had no intention of losing her.

They found the Carol singers just around the corner. The corset was quite tight, and her cheeks were flushed: her chest moved up and down very quickly, and she was so short of breath he felt, for a moment, very concerned that she could faint. When she put a hand on his own chest, even over the fabric, and saw her expression of wild happiness, he could do nothing more than blush a little and putting his arm round her shoulders.

 

_Hark how the bells,_

_Sweet silver bells,_

_All seem to say,_

_Throw cares away_

 

_Christmas is here,_

_Bringing good cheer,_

_To young and old,_

_Meek and the bold._

 

_Ding dong ding dong_

_That is their song_

_With joyful ring_

_All caroling._

 

_One seems to hear_

_Words of good cheer_

_From everywhere_

_Filling the air._

 

_Oh how they pound,_

_Raising the sound,_

_O'er hill and dale,_

_Telling their tale._

 

_Gaily they ring_

_While people sing_

_Songs of good cheer,_

_Christmas is here._

 

_Merry, Merry, Merry, Merry Christmas,_

_Merry, Merry, Merry, Merry Christmas._

 

_On on they send,_

_On without end,_

_Their joyful tone_

_To every home._

 

They were very talented, that was undoubted. There was a soloist, a young girl with a clear and sweet voice, and the choir accompanying her without covering her silvery voice. Clara had found her breath again and was looking at the choir with almost wet eyes. She was still leaning on his arm and chest, but more delicately, as she was somewhere else and yet with him. He looked at her all the time, until the singers turned silent and curtseyed and bowed to the listeners that were applauding them. The Doctor moved quickly to them to leave some money in the basket they were carrying. Clara was surprised and kept quite for a little while as they surpassed the group of carol singers.

«You never carry money.» she said.

«No... as you are rarely speechless, Clara Oswald.» he replied.

She did not reply all of a sudden.

«Something wrong?» the Doctor enquired.

«No, not... wrong. I just... it moved me more than I expected.» Clara explained, evidently embarrassed by her confession. He smiled a little ironic smile, and then pointed at the other side of the road, with his walking stick hanging down.

«I believe you wanted to meet good old Charlie boy.» he whispered. Clara read the poster: the great Charles Dickens was reading his Christmas ghost stories! Her enthusiasm was painted all over her face, and without thinking too much about it, lifting herself using his arm as a lever, kissed his cheek. The passers-by smiled and giggled, and he had the very awkward sensation that they mistook them for father and daughter.

«The money was for this then?» she asked, as they approached the entrance of the theatre.

«Maybe.» he said, offering a gloved hand to take hers. They both regretted that amount of fabric between them, and Clara hoped that the shadow over his face was just a temporary nothing.

They had a very pleasant evening, as Charlie was undoubtedly a very talented entertainer, if not a good actor. Clara did not insist on meeting him, as she felt she wanted to spend a true Victorian Christmas now. But where could they go, and to whom?

As they were walking down the same street as before, the Doctor was noticed by the carol singer. The soloist girl ran towards them and asked, as politely and humbly as she could master, if they wanted to join the festivity at the poorhouse they were taking the money they collected to.

She almost expected the Doctor to try and escape that visit, but he seemed willing. Clara thanked him with a smile, determined to be grateful afterwards too.

After a long dinner with just enough food for everyone, and lots of laughter, the Doctor and Clara were invited to the dance. She exchanged a glance with him: God knew how much she wanted to be dragged by a charming gentleman to the dance-floor, but she felt the Doctor and her needed their own privacy. He seemed reluctant to their hosts' offering, and you could pretty much tell that by his body language: embarrassed, stiff and awkward, the Doctor was looking desperately at her as to beg her to find an excuse. Clara sighed and thanked the carol singers for their kindness, leaving with a very relieved Doctor at her arm.

 

Back in the TARDIS, Clara felt a little cold: the dress was elaborate but not particularly warm, after taking off her cloak. The Doctor seemed to not have noticed, but was close to her enough to feel her breath constrained by her corset.

«Thank you...» she started to say. «For this Christmas.»

He smiled, lowering his gaze in a sort of humble or awkward demeanour she found extremely adorable, just moment before he raised his eyes to hers, and the shiver down her spine was of an entirely other nature.

With his eyes in hers, the Doctor took her hand in his and kissed it. Clara blushed, feeling her cheeks in flames, and tightened her hold over his own hand. Without another word, she followed him down a corridor, leaving the control room and finding a small door.

Beyond the threshold, there was a very simple living room, similar to her own. There was a library with lots of paperbacks, an ample sectional sofa with seat corners, no TV but a nice coffee table with treats and a huge, coloured and shining Christmas tree. She turned to him.

«Did you...?» she asked.

«The TARDIS found an old file or something.» the Doctor justified himself, even if that was not what Clara wanted. The girl, still in Victorian clothes, hugged him enthusiastically, with the brightest smile. He reciprocated a moment afterwards: he did not like hugging, but this time he knew what was on her face... and could feel the constraining corset underneath her dress, as well as her chest, fighting with it to let her breath.

«I love adventures, and especially adventures with you, but sometimes is nice to get a bit cosy.» she explained, feeling more moved than she expected, exactly like with the carol singers before.

«I an not sure I will survive it.» he whispered, in a tone he did not intend as sensual, but that it indeed was. She let him go and took off some pins from her comb: her hair fell down elegantly, as she turned to offer him her back, moving the hair to allow him to open her dress.

There was no need for words. It felt so different from the morning, when they had dressed up: the way he opened the hooks and skirt and made them fell on the floor was so delicate... his fingers loosened the laces of his corset, and he heard distinctively her breath gaining back the oxygen her lungs needed. She turned when the corset was on the floor too, and started to undo his cravat and open his waistcoat. It took a bit to get rid of it all, but they both didn't seem to mind: they were taking care of each other. In the end they were both with a light, cotton shirt, shorter for him and longer for her. The Doctor conducted her to the bit sofa, were Clara sat first, to allow him to take off her long stockings. The shiver down her spine when his fingers moved down her tights and legs made her bite her lip in anticipation.

When he sat down too, they lay down next to each other and half disappeared under a soft blanket: she unbuttoned his shirt and caressed his chest, feeling the collar bones beneath his thin clear skin, his breath accelerating with his hearts. She seemed concentrated in his exploration, but when he kissed her left temple, slowly and sweetly, she closed her eyes, as to print that moment in her memory: his scent, the warmth of his touch, the Christmas tree's lights in the semi-darkness painting the scene.

He started to caress her leg, letting his hand move up her thigh and raising the light fabric of her chemise as he reached her back. Clara sighed as she tried to do the same, not kissing but caressing each other's face, cheek against cheek, forehead against forehead. They separated only to take those only garments left off, and remaining naked against each other under the blanket. They stayed like this, cuddling each other tenderly and loosing their gaze in each other's for endless moments. Clara knew the Doctor was not like this, that he felt usually awkward and tense, and in a way she could always perceive a note of embarrassment in his moves, but she understood it was not due to insecurity or discomfort, but to great emotion. She cupped his face, as much as her little hands could and started kissing him, first tentatively, as to silently give him permission to stop her or indicate her otherwise. As he embraced her and started kissing her too, she let their tongues meet each other, her fingers up to his curls, her body completely against his, skin on skin. They were short of breath when he found her neck with his lips and her hips with his hands, and when she felt his hearts beat rapidly against her breasts. Clara hung to his torso, and intertwined her legs with his: she only wanted to disappear in that embrace.

She could feel them both getting more and more aroused; their cheeks were flushed, their hearts were pounding faster and faster, their breath was short and their pupils dilated, and his erection was getting stronger and harder against her wetness. The Doctor, looking directly in her eyes as to understand her own soul, let a hand slip between them. He found her clit, and started to play with it slightly. Clara bit her lip first, but as his moves became more elaborate and precise, she had to hang more onto him, scratching his skin on his chest or back: she was starting to feel so overwhelmed she could not understand what to do to get to the only point she wanted to go. She moaned, first trying to contain herself, then louder and louder as his fingers were getting inside her and finally cursed him and begged him. He slipped inside her with a growl, his eyes still in hers, and kissed her again before his first thrust. She moved as to encourage him to continue, and after a few seconds they were moving perfectly together, their groans and cries filled the air. She whispered his name, as he murmured hers, sometimes choked into a move that had affected them too much to articulate. He was the one to beg, as they came together, sealing that infinite moment of pleasure with a kiss.

They did not part as they sat more comfortably on the sofa, Clara sitting on the Doctor's lap, under the blanket, teasing each other less intensely.

«You did not let your eyes off me, literally.» she noted, her head on his chest as well as her hand that was not on his back.

«Did I ever tell you I have been young, and telepathic?» he replied, caressing her skin and keeping her in his embrace.

«Somehow.» was the reply.

«I wanted to reach you, and I felt like I did.» the Doctor explained, as simply as he could do, his tone falsely casual. She felt moved again, and all her plans of distracting him with studied moves went of a metaphorical window.

«Merry Christmas, Doctor.» she whispered, curling up against him and smiling.

«Merry Christmas, Clara Oswald.» he replied, with a little sigh, looking at the decorated tree and knowing that, even if that moment would end soon, it would always be in their hearts.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song featured at the beginning of the chapter is "Carol of the Bells", I was listening to the Caroline Pennell version all this festive season, together with "O Come, O Come, Emmanuel" by Handsome and Gretyl (too "churchy" for this piece).


End file.
